


Ghost in the Dead of Night

by WhatATime



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bat Family, Batfamily Feels, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Love, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dick Grayson-centric, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eyes, Family Drama, Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery, Sadness, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 12:17:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18010775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatATime/pseuds/WhatATime
Summary: The prettiest eyes always closed too soon.---------------------------------------------The birdie who fell out the nest when the older birds weren’t paying attention. He should’ve been paying more attention, should've come home more, should’ve asked more questions, should’ve--





	Ghost in the Dead of Night

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! 
> 
> Here's another installation of what I call Green Eyes. 
> 
> The two stories that prelude this are "Green Eyes" and "Torture, or reflection, or the savoring of loneliness," respectively. Though it's not needed to read this story, I would suggest reading the latter of the two for more background on where Dick is now. "Green Eyes," though I stand by it, was written in a different stage of my writing skill, so if you read it, be warned that it isn't of the caliber you'll read here or in "Torture, or reflection, or the savoring of loneliness."
> 
> My Tumblr is drybonesshallcomealive, and I post a lot of Batfamily stuff there.
> 
> Now that I'm done, thanks for reading the Author's Note, and enjoy the story!

Dick woke with a gasp. 

 

He cracked an eye open.

 

No windows. Green lights. No signs. No evidence. No nothing.

 

The only thing he could see was a hazy shadow hunched over the floor. The only thing he remembered was hands wrapped around his throat. The only thing he knew was he had to figure out the connection between the aforementioned.

 

He inadvertently let out a quiet groan. His head felt like it’d been hit by a mallet, and his mouth was drier than the Sahara. There was an irony taste when he licked his lips that suggested he’d been bleeding, but he didn’t feel or see any blood, dry or wet.

 

As a matter of fact, he now realized he was in sweats. Soft cotton sweatpants and a fleece blanket covered him, a feather pillow under his head, glass of water on a small stool to his right, all atop a sofa.

 

Dick sat up slowly and, ignoring the nausea, downed the cool liquid. A small stream diverged from its assigned path and dribbled down his chin. He wiped it with his fist and set the glass by his leg before looking at the shadow on the floor again.

 

The shadow looked younger now, smaller, skinnier. He blinked a few more times, and it wasn’t a shadow anymore (a ghost).

 

His eyes widened. “Damian?” asked, slightly raspy. It was a ghost. It had to be (they found his body).

 

The ghost boy didn’t turn to look at Dick or even answer for that matter (his cold and pale body).

 

He cleared his throat. “Damian.” Dick moved to get off the couch when he was stopped by a resounding crash. Could ghosts talk?

 

Damian stiffened and pulled earbuds out. That explained his not answering. “The glass?”

 

“Sorry.” Dick tried to smile, but he couldn’t hold back anxiety from the moment. He hadn’t seen Damian in months (face covered with dirt). He’d missed him. “Hey, Li--”

 

“The glass?” Damian said again. He was still on that then.

 

“I said sorry.”

 

“You’ll drink out of the shards.” Kid’s tongue hadn’t changed. Damian sighed before standing to sweep the mess up.

 

Dick examined him more as his headache left. It appeared Damian wore League attire as religiously as he’d once worn his Robin costume. The hood and mask were pulled down, at least. Dick sat fully up, swinging his legs to the floor.

 

Damian left the room.

 

It was an interesting space. The condo was as nice as a Bollywood production, decorated with accents, the kitchen yonder looked like it came straight from a home decor magazine, smelled like a rainy day. The only disturbance was a stray pile composed of Dick’s bloodied uniform and knives on a trash bag.

 

Damian came back into the room and returned to his place. 

 

“You live here?” Dick asked.

 

“No.”

 

Dick grinned.

 

Damian’s face was hard as a rock. Dick found when they were Batman and Robin that the kid’s expressions were harder to change than biting a jawbreaker. “You had a fever earlier,” he muttered, turning to go back to his sketchbook.

 

“What’re you drawing?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Can I see it?”

 

“No.”

 

Dick looked around. There were no clocks to be seen. “What time is it?”

 

“11:07,” Damian responded.

 

“How long’ve I been out?”

 

“A day and a half.”

 

“Have you called Bruce?”

 

That must’ve been the wrong question. Damian didn’t answer it.

 

“Where are we?”

 

Damian turned his gaze to Dick and gave a quizzical expression.

 

“Country, state, city,” Dick explained.

 

“America.”

 

“That’s all you’ll give me?”

 

Damian’s face suggested he was fighting a grin. “That’s all I’ll give you.”

 

“East? West?”

 

“Neither, really.”

 

“Iowa?”

 

“Boy wonder,” Damian said sarcastically as he tapped his page with a pencil.

 

“You live here?” Maybe he wasn’t dead, just missing. Like Jason. Dick ran a hand through his hair. 

 

Dick traded the sofa for the floor, scooting to sit by Damian.

 

The boy (who looked like a teen, but when did that happen?) frowned, not at Dick but at the sketch. It was an eye. Why eyes were so important to Damian, Dick had no idea, but they had been since the boy was twelve. Dick didn’t know exactly when it happened, but Damian’s art suddenly became dominated by eyes. Everything had eyes. Eyes were the most important. They were the last thing he drew, sometimes the only thing he drew. 

 

Did eyes have anything to do with this? He thought Damian couldn’t see that they loved him. Maybe it was him who’d been blind. “I’ve missed you, kiddo.”

 

Damian blinked. He didn’t-- wouldn’t-- look up at Dick.

 

Dick wrapped an arm around his little brother (couldn’t feel him), putting tension on the stitches in his side he hadn't noticed until now (he didn’t know which hurt more). The birdie who  flew fell out the nest when the older birds weren’t paying attention. He should’ve been paying more attention, should've come home more, should’ve asked more questions, should’ve--

 

A sniffle.

…

Dick woke again.

 

_ Damian. _

 

His eyes shot open.

 

It was dark outside, but it wasn’t dawn. Has he slept all day? “Damian?” he asked, searching the room. His throat hurt.

 

The same shadow that was his little brother sat in front of the television. A cartoon played and light flickered across the room. A lamp was the only reason he saw a foot in front of him.

 

He cleared his throat. “Damian.”

 

It seemed they were back to the silent treatment.

 

“Are you hurt?”

 

Damian turned around and held out a cup (plastic this time) of water. His face was off, nose crooked and eyes fractionally lidded (The prettiest eyes always closed too soon).

 

Dick took the cup, sliding his fingers around it. He hadn’t realized how hot he was until his fingertips met the cold condensation. He must’ve been out for a fever then. He murmured a thank you behind the cup.

 

Damian nodded. He took the cup back when Dick finished. 

 

“What day is it?”

 

“Sunday.”

 

It was the third Sunday of the month then. So why was Damian here? Every third Sunday, flowers appeared on Talia’s grave. It had to be Damian, mostly because it hadn’t been Jason or Bruce. “But…” They were close then. Still in Bludhaven or Gotham or somewhere close.  _ Hiding right there. Like Juliet’s pulse to Romeo’s fingers. _

 

Damian returned to his show, now sporting a sketchbook and pencil. He scooted back against the sofa.

 

“You live in Gotham.”

 

“No.”

 

“Blud?”

 

“No.” 

 

“New--”

 

“Silence.”

 

Dick laid a hand on Damian’s head, ruffling the hair a slight moment before resting his hand there. Damian was bigger, more muscular, but he was slender.  _ Just like his mother. _ How would Bruce feel about his son inheriting more al Ghul traits than Wayne ones? How did Damian reconcile the two?

 

Damian didn’t respond.

  
  


They sat in silence, which, considering Dick’s impending headache, he was grateful for. Thoughts grated against his mind, pain radiated from his middle. He almost wished he were asleep again. He leaned down and took Damian’s hand. It was damp like a warm washcloth.

 

The yellow lamplight revealed scratches on Damian’s arm and hand, a bruise permeated it. “What happened?”

 

Damian kept his eyes trained on the television, and his hand limpened, though he didn’t pull it away.

 

“Anything to eat?” Dick asked, changing the subject with the intention of covering it later.

 

Damian nodded, leaving Dick for the modest kitchen ten feet away.

 

Dick stretched his sore neck to watch.

 

The teen diligently sifted through cabinets, disappearing and reappearing every moment, before finally coming out with a bowl of cereal and spoon. He handed it to Dick before taking his seat back.

 

“Thank you.” Dick set the bowl in his blanketed lap. “It’s almost the 4th of July, you know.” He took a bite of cereal, allowing the grain to go soggy in the sugar-diluting milk before swallowing.

 

“And?” Damian asked, his voice tinged with fatigue.

 

“Maybe you’d wanna come over?”

 

“Don’t read into this anymore than you have to, Richard. You’re here only because Father and Pennyworth are out of town.”

 

They both knew that wasn’t true. In a moment of weakness, Dick smiled. “You love me.”

 

And Damian turned to him. Their eyes met, and Damian’s lips formed a lopsided grin of their own. The teen, in all honesty, had never quite got the concept of a smile. He could scowl, frown, smirk, but a true smile had been eradicated long ago by Dick’s calculations. “No, I don’t.” He turned back.

 

“You stock my favorite cereal?” Dick looked down at the bowl. 

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Have you eaten?” Dick took a bite of the cold, crunchy cereal. He swallowed slowly, testing out his throat. It didn’t hurt so bad.

 

“I’m not hungry at the moment.”

 

“You sure?” Dick queried lightly. “Doing whatever you did must’ve taking a lot out of you.”

 

“Whatever I did?”

 

“Yeah. Like…”

 

“Like what?”

 

“You can finish it.”

 

“I’d rather it be you.” 

 

Dick couldn’t help but frown. The banter hadn’t changed as far as speed, but the content most definitely had come higher. It was superficial, cold, not Damian (how Damian used to be anyway). He’d grown up without Dick, without Batman and Nightwing, without home, with only himself and a sword and flowers every third Sunday. “Come sit with me.” A question but an order.

 

Damian sniffed. “I’m fine here,” but he left the floor and slid under Dick’s legs. 

 

He wished he wasn’t able to see the nose better. Dick remembered a stray patrol back when he was Batman and Damian Robin. A crook had punched Damian in the nose. Dick’d needed all his strength not to throw the idiot off the building. He felt the same desire now. 

 

His fingers brushed Damian’s nose.

 

“Stop,” Damian said softly.

 

“Does it hurt?”

 

Damian pushed his hand away. “Stop.”

 

“Does Bruce know where I am?” The thought had been gnawing at him. Bruce had a tracker on Dick, but did Damian disable it?

 

“Did you want to call him?” Petulance tinged his tone.

 

“No.”

 

Damian nodded,

 

And Dick gazed into the beautiful, emerald green eyes that somehow faded.

… 

“It’s still there,” Dick said bleakly, staring into the six foot deep brown void he’d made for himself in the cold Gotham night outside Wayne Manor. The iron shovel lay limp in one hand, a dirtied contact case in the other.

 

In it, laid a mahogany casket embedded with emerald jewels. A 60-inch, hand carved box that held the corporeal form (?) of Damian Wayne. He’d open it if the thought didn’t cut paper through his heart.

 

“Dick?”

 

“Bruce.”

 

“What’re you doing?” This was the shakiest he’d ever heard Bruce’s voice.

 

Dick tried to wipe the tears cascading down his cheeks, creating mud streaks down his face.

 

“Come inside, chum.”

 

Inside? He couldn’t go inside, couldn’t leave Damian’s body to rot more than it already had.

 

Bruce gripped Dick’s upper arm, pulling the young man up off the ground. “Inside.” He wrapped an arm around Dick’s frame, keeping him from toppling back onto the ground.

 

Dick sniffled as they went inside, wishing the ghost would come haunt him again.

…

His limbs are lead, Dick’s. He laid in Bruce’s bed with the ghost’s green hoodie pressed to his face. He breathed the unwashed, ivory-scented fabric. He cried.

 

He cried until he ran out of tears, sniffled until he ran out of tissues, and pictured the ghost until it haunted him again. 

 

“Richard.” Damian wrapped his arms around Dick’s middle. He was too real for a ghost.

 

Dick sighed, eyes closing as he returned the hug. “I’m sorry.”

 

“There’s nothing to be forgiven.”

 

He tucked the boy’s head under his chin.

 

“My mother’s child,” Damian said softly. “What do you think that means?” He turned his gaze up.

 

“It’s where you get your eyes from.”

 

The boy frowned.

 

“They’re beautiful, you know.” Dick sighed. “Sparkle like precious stones, emeralds. Like my mom’s.”

 

“Were what?”

 

“Your mother’s eyes.”

 

“Green,” Dick said before pausing, “Green like yours.”

 

The ghost smiled before sinking, dissipating into the night after his haunt as he always did and would.

**Author's Note:**

> The reader may do what they must with this story.


End file.
